Rituals
by raywing
Summary: Each day in our lives is filled with comforting little rituals...


It's early in the day, not yet light.

She shakes herself awake and stretches, and lets familiar routine guide her, padding across the room, eyes half-closed, grabbing a quick shower. She's more alert by the time she makes her way down the stairs to the kitchen nook. The pattern here is also familiar: check the clock, pour the coffee, snap the lid onto the thermal mug, snatch up the other necessities on the way to the door. Coffee, keys, purse, phone—yes, all accounted for.

It's only a short elevator ride down to the lobby, and she smiles warmly at Carlos the doorman: ever-faithful, ever-vigilant, another emblem of stability. They exchange greetings as he ushers her through. There aren't many pedestrians yet on the still-dark sidewalks, but she is untroubled. She knows her way. Next there is the descent, the brief wait, the exhilarating rush of wind at the approach of the subway train ("Metro Transit—Metro fast!"). The Tower Line tends to be one of the busiest when the commute reaches its daily peak, but now it, too, is mostly deserted, for most of those who will be coming to visit it have not yet risen, still tucked in bed.

It is automatic reflex, almost below conscious awareness, to count the stops until she feels the train slowing to pause at her destination as the eternally-same voice so familiar it is almost a friend offers its never-varying admonition to stay clear of the doors and watch her step. "The" billboard (another old friend) welcomes her to the Heart of Metro City, complete with exclamation point, as she ascends through the Downtown Tower Hub, an ambitious creation from the days of the transit system's infancy. When she takes the final step onto the street, she needs only a brief moment to scan the street and spot the trusty, white KMCP 8 news van. There's the usual flurry of activity—a wardrobe check, a last-minute re-touch of makeup—before the cameraman nods and gives the signal.

"On in three, Ma'am…."

In those final seconds, she finds a brief chance to reflect, for not _everything_ is routine, and she smiles faintly as she thinks about that, the part of her life which is decidedly _un_predictable—but oh, so very precious.

Across the steel and concrete of the City, which feels to him like a thousand miles, he flicks one of the monitors on, for which his hand pauses briefly before continuing on its quest to find a misplaced boot. Aha! There it is.

The golden voice flowing from the monitor had been summoned in the middle of a sentence.

"—_broadcasting live from the steps of Metro Tower. Authorities are expected to announce a projected date for the re-opening of our city's most famous landmark sometime in the next few days. After the completion of the new State Street overpass and the finalizing of repairs to the damaged Global Trade Exchange earlier this week, the re-opening of Metro Tower will mark the next major milestone for the ongoing rebirth of downtown in the wake of Titan's devastating rampage. This is Roxanne Ritchi, reporting. Back to you, Carl."_

"_Thanks, Roxanne. Now, for other news around the nation, let's go to—"_

The rest of the broadcast becomes a pleasant buzz in the background, the part that most interested him having passed, though is face now has a soft smile of its own. Thoughts of her are his anchor as he goes through the well-worn motions of preparing for the day. First the right boot, an extra stamp of the foot to ensure that it's firmly in place, followed by the left. A tug on the suit to ensure it falls straight, then the belt, with a subconscious sigh as the comforting, familiar weight of the holster settles against his thigh, De-Gun securely in place. Finally comes the cape, and lastly the gloves, buckled in place, the sensation of the straps another subtle cue that he is ready, and that duty awaits.

He doesn't have to speak, the choreography of these hours is so well-established; the report is offered, unasked.

"Preflights on the hoverbike are green, Sir. Looks like the last re-calibration took care of that rear stabilizer glitch."

"Oh? Excellent. Thank you, Minion."

"Of course, Sir. I don't have any alerts from the brainbots, Sir, and the Monitors show all clear. Looks like a quiet day so far."

"Then it's time to go and see that it stays that way," the hero replies, nodding in acknowledgment as he swings himself onto his bike. He gives the throttle an experimental squeeze and enjoys the satisfying rumble that rises in response. Then, he is off, taking to the skies to watch over his city from above.

She is down there, somewhere, and everything is just as it should be. Her report, his patrol, dawn spreading over the slowly waking city. These are all the old, familiar little routines.

The rituals of the morning.

* * *

><p>It is late in the day, very much so, well past dark.<p>

Here, too, there is order. A quiet knock on the balcony door, soft lips and tender arms. Warmth. These are all the new and wonderfully surprising routines.

The rituals of the evening.


End file.
